


(you give me) good vibes

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Blogger Stiles Stilinski, Crushes, Deputy Derek Hale, Happy Ending, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a popular blogger who made his internet fame reviewing sex toys. His neighbor, Derek -- the guy Stiles has had a major crush on since he moved in a few months ago -- has no idea.</p>
<p>Written for the prompt: sterek + "for some reason i thought it would be fun to wear a wireless vibrator in public, but now i’ve lost the remote"</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you give me) good vibes

Stiles has a good life -- nay, an _amazing_ life. He has an awesome circle of friends, a job that not only pays the bills but literally brings him pleasure to do, and now, the hottest dude he’s ever laid eyes on has moved in next door. The guy’s tall -- probably as tall as Stiles himself -- but he’s built like he could bench press Stiles’ jeep. Dark hair, scruffy stubble he wouldn’t mind scratching his skin red, _leather jacket_ ; he’s a veritable walking, talking ‘hnnng’ sound and Stiles _wants_.

“You’re spying on him from your window, aren’t you?” Scott asks, bored, from the other end of their phone call.

Stiles jumps back from the blinds. He considers lying, but there’s no point. Scott’s had to listen to enough of his lovelorn monologues throughout the years that he knows all his tells. “It’s annoying how well you know me,” he says instead. “And you can’t blame me for wanting to know my neighbors, you know? They could be axe murderers, or pyros -- fuck, remember Allison’s aunt? I’m naturally curious, and for a good reason.”

“Paranoid might be a better word for it.”

“ _Kate. Argent_ ,” he hisses, because no one had suspected wholesome aunt Kate of committing the arson that nearly burned down the old Hale house out in the woods until she came back a few years later to finish the job and got caught by -- “Wait, fuck,” he says, and splits the blinds once more. “It’s Derek Hale.”

“Kate is Derek Hale?”

“No! My neighbor is Derek Hale. Holy shit,” Stiles crows, because Derek Hale grew up _hot_. They had been in exactly one class together in high school. Coach Finstock had subbed it for a few months -- the regular teacher had caught mono or whatever; he’d been an absolute terror who’d taught them exactly nothing. Stiles was a freshman then, and Derek a senior. Derek was a good looking dude, even back then, and maybe Stiles had a tiny little crush on him at the time, but _this_ Derek is on another plane of existence. “Do you think I should go introduce myself? Bake him some ‘welcome to the building’ cookies?” he asks.

“You’re a terrible baker,” Scott reminds him. “And it might be a good idea to let yourself cool down before you go over there. You can be a little -- overeager.”

“True,” he sighs, remembering all the times he’s flailed his way in and out of relationships. “I don’t want to seem thirsty, but I am, Scotty. I’m so thirsty.”

“He’s not Gatorade, okay? Chill.”

Stiles goes to bed that night with Derek on his mind, feeling only a _little_ bad about fantasizing as he wraps his hand around his already half-hard dick. He closes his eyes and imagines that it’s Derek touching him, working him slow and thorough, and it’s not long at all before he comes with a broken off groan.

He switches on his laptop afterwards and checks his order shipment -- a new toy is on its way, arriving tomorrow if the tracker is anything to go by, and he pumps his fist. It’s been over a weeks since he’s written a review on his blog, and he always gets real poetic when he has a muse. He can already tell this’ll be a good one. He settles onto his back and closes his eyes with a satisfied sigh.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Derek,” he says to the ceiling.

 

-

 

The next day, Stiles sees Derek lugging more boxes up the stairs. He contemplates offering to help -- despite the gesture confirming that he’s indeed been spying on Derek from his window -- and settles on opening his door and just asking. “Those look heavy,” he points out, “do you need any help?”

Derek watches him for a moment, heavy eyebrows pulled together like he’s confused that another human being would be _decent_ \-- though, considering what almost happened to his family, it’s not a far stretch that he would be wary. “Sure,” he says quietly, and dumps the boxes he’s been carrying into Stiles’s waiting arms. “You can put that anywhere.” Then he turns around and goes back down the stairs to where, presumably, the rest of his stuff is waiting.

Stiles wastes only a second feeling awkward -- Derek Hale invited him into his apartment and he isn’t going to waste the opportunity in case it never happens again -- before shouldering his way inside. The layout is exactly like his, and he follows the short hallway into the living room. He sets the box down and cases the place quickly, but there’s not much of note. Unopened boxes are stacked everywhere, and a blow-up mattress lies in the middle of the mess instead of the bedroom. There’s an impressive flat screen TV on the far wall, too, but Stiles can see that it’s not yet hooked up. Weird.

He meets Derek on the stairs again, and they spend the next thirty minutes ferrying boxes. He tries to make small talk with Derek as he goes, but the other man is surprisingly tight lipped. The Derek Stiles remembers liked to run his mouth the only way an All-American, stereotypically popular athlete could. Now, he grunts monosyllabic answers, if he deigns to answer at all. This is bad news for Stiles, who doesn’t like silences and fixes this by filling them.

“So what brings you to Beacon Hills?” he asks, and quickly continues on when Derek only glances at him with a look of deep exasperation. “I mean, you don’t have to answer. I’m sure you have a good reason. This place is pretty legit, you know? Tons of job opportunities. Weird for a small town, now that I think about it. Hm. Oh, and there’s lots of space to go running and be free and one with nature --”

“I took a job, Stiles,” Derek interrupts. He has a quiet voice, but it’s commanding, too. “With the sheriff’s department.”

Stiles mouth clacks shut as his brain reboots. His dad mentioned at dinner last week that he hired someone new, but he absolutely neglected to mention that the rookie was _Derek Hale_. “You’re a cop?” he asks. Then his brain skips back one, and he realizes Derek used his name, and they never formally introduced themselves. “Wait. How do you know who I am?”

“Which one do you want me to answer first?”

“Um -- the second one,” he decides, as he already knows the answer to the first.

Derek sighs and sets his box down on the kitchen counter. “We had a class together in high school. And your last name is on the mailboxes.”

Stiles pulls a face, impressed. “I can see why my dad hired you.”

“Because I have basic observation skills?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Have you met any of the other deputies? Well, Parrish isn’t too bad,” he amends, and comes to lean up against the counter next to Derek. “You’d be surprised as to who we have keeping our streets safe.”

“Me, now.”

“Exactly.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I am feeling _super_ safe these days.”

Derek huffs, and Stiles counts it as a laugh.

“Do you… want a beer or something?” Derek asks after a long moment, and Stiles thinks about declining. But he shrugs, and accepts the beer he’s offered, and shoots the shit in Derek’s unpacked kitchen for a while. He learns that Derek went to school in New York after he graduated, and got a degree in English lit, but decided to come back to Beacon Hills and join the police force instead of pursuing teaching. “Things change,” he says, when Stiles asks why.

“I honestly can’t picture you as a second grade teacher or whatever,” Stiles says, though the image of Derek in a cardigan and wire-framed glasses surrounded by cute, cherubic children makes him weak in the knees. “Like, I’ve only known you maybe an hour, dude, and you scare me.”

“I’m great with kids,” Derek replies flatly. “I have lots of younger cousins.”

“You do, huh?” He knows Derek has two sisters, Cora and Laura, and a weirdo uncle that used to hang around the adult video store before it went out of business years ago, but he’s never met the rest of the Hales. His dad always said they were a huge bunch. “That’s cool. So… you like working with my dad? I promise whatever you say in this kitchen will stay in this kitchen. Safe zone, dude.”

Derek’s mouth tightens into a disapproving frown, and he says brusquely, “I admire your father.”

Stiles laughs awkwardly, reaching up to rub at his neck. It was just a joke, but he can tell Derek didn’t take it as one. “No, yeah, my dad… he’s a good dude, I’ll admit. The greatest I know,” he says, but Derek’s expression doesn’t lighten in the least. He taps his fingers on the counter, disappointed. And they’d been getting along so well. “I should probably get going. I have -- uh, work to do.”

“You work from home?”

Stiles flushes, not normally embarrassed to admit how he makes the most of his living but strangely so now. He runs a popular blog, a large portion of it consisting of sex toy reviews; also known as: _the best job ever_. But with the knowledge that he’ll probably see Derek around a lot more, now that he’s on the police force _and_ his neighbor, not to mention how he epically just shoved his foot into his mouth, he decides to go vague. “Yeah, something like that,” he says. “Internet blogging and stuff.”

“Like a YouTube star?” At Stiles’s bewildered expression, he explains, “You can make a decent living if you’re popular.” 

“No, I know. Just -- no. I’m not on YouTube.” And, for some reason, he hopes Derek doesn’t find him where he is.

Stiles doesn’t see much of Derek after that. They pass one another in the hallways sometimes, where they exchange brief, polite greetings, but Stiles doesn’t push for friendship -- or more -- and Derek doesn’t offer. He’s disappointed of course, and tells Scott as much as often as possible.

“He’s grumpy as fuck, but it would’ve been fun,” he says.

“Or complicated,” Scott replies, ever the voice of reason. “He’s your neighbor, and he works for your dad.”

Stiles sighs into his beer. He and Scott are at the local watering hole, waiting for the rest of their ragtag group of friends, and he’s maybe a _little_ too far into his cups to be having a serious conversation. “Damn, damn the consequences,” he mutters, and winces when Scott claps his shoulder with a grin.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, and he’s wobbling out into the parking lot before he knows it. He’s waiting for Lydia -- who offered to give him a ride when he decided he might as well make a night of it -- when he sees someone approach him from the corner of his eye.

“You’re not planning on driving home, are you?” It’s Derek. He’s wearing his uniform, and Stiles only has a second to admire the view before his brain catches up and he realizes what Derek’s implying.

He sputters, mildly offended, and quickly shows his hands. “I don’t have my keys on me,” he says, and a wave of relief washes over him when he sees Derek nod approvingly. “My friend’s going to give me a ride home. She’s stone-cold sober, by the way.”

“Good.” 

The door to the bar swings open then, and a few people Stiles doesn’t recognize tumble out. They sober quickly when they see Derek standing around, and make a big show of hailing a taxi that’s idling on the curb. Stiles snorts when he sees Derek’s expression.

“Shouldn’t you be, you know, _catching_ those in the act instead of giving us poor drunkards the fire and brimstone routine?”

Derek shrugs impassively. “Less paperwork.” 

“Fair enough.” His dad's always complaining about it, in any case.

They stand outside together until Lydia arrives, the two of them chatting about nothing in particular -- the A’s are doing terrible this year, Billy Bean should be shot, the cool weather they’ve been having and the promise of el Niño for the winter. It feels like progress, but towards what, Stiles isn’t sure. Still, it’s nice, and Stiles is sad to go when Lydia finally drags him away.

He glances out the window when he’s buckled in, wanting to get one last look at Derek in uniform before the night’s through, and he’s pleased to see that Derek’s still standing where he was last. A wave of want rolls through him, and, for a split second, he _swears_ he sees something flash in Derek’s eyes; an unnatural gold hue that he must be a trick of the streetlamps outside. Must be. Right? He thumps his head against the window. “Fuck, I am drunk,” he says to no one in particular.

He wakes the next morning to a wicked headache and the worst dry-mouth he’s ever had, including the time he and Scott smoked _way_ too much weed their first time and they both thought they were going to die. He proceeds to drink what feels like a gallon of water, and then wastes a part of his morning playing Call of Duty with an equally hung-over Scott. 

“Did you have a good time last time?” Scott asks, right before he stabs Stiles in the back.

“BRO!” Stiles groans, and impatiently waits for his character to respawn. “I saw Derek last night.”

“You did?”

“Not like _that._ Well, who the fuck knows. Maybe. But he, like, came out of the shadows and basically asked if I was gonna drunk drive when I was waiting outside for Lydia.” He sticks his tongue out and double taps. “Boom! Headshot!”

Scott sighs. “And?”

“And nothing. He stuck around for a bit and we chatted.”

“That’s not nothing, that’s awesome!”

“Don’t get my hopes up. He was probably bored out of his fucking mind and I was the first person he saw that he knew or whatever. We talked baseball. It wasn’t sexy.” 

“Still, he chose to approach _you_. That means something.” 

“ _Or_ he was bored. Like I said. Have I ever told you how exhausting it is to be best friends with an eternal optimist?”

“I’m sure it’s just as tiring as being best bros with a perpetual downer.”

Stiles hums, caught. “Touché.”

 

-

 

A month passes by with Stiles working on his reviews diligently. He’s more popular now than ever, his crush on Derek igniting some spark of creativity he hasn’t felt since he first started blogging, and his followers can tell. It’s awesome is what it is, and he’s _this close_ to partnering with one of his favorite toy lines. The only thing that could make it better is if he had someone to experiment with, but every time he considers hooking up, his mind wanders onto whom he really wants: Derek, who hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in him, romantic or otherwise.

But he doesn’t have time to mope about his lack of love life. A package came in the mail yesterday, a toy he’s heard so much and just finally decided to try. He tears the box open and briefly scans over the instructions before spending nearly fifteen minutes cutting through the hellacious plastic casing. 

The vibe is medium-sized, soft to the touch, with a flat base. He scribbles down his initial thoughts on his notepad, and then moves onto the vibration settings. It came with a controller, which looks uncannily like a TV remote. He flicks through all the power settings, detached and clinical for his first assessment, and, when he finally thinks he has it all parsed out, he goes to the bedroom. 

He preps himself quickly but thoroughly, and presses the vibe to his hole gently when he’s ready, slowly pushing it in until it’s seated all the way inside. He grunts at the full feeling, and strokes his flagging dick. He’s honestly never been a huge fan of plugs; he prefers the sensation of something going in and out, and the constant intrusion never fails to make him lose his hard-on. “Time to try the vibe,” he murmurs, and pats around the bed for a moment before remembering he’d left the damn thing on his coffee table. He scoots out of bed and throws some basketball shorts on, too lazy to take the vibe out just to have to put it back in.

He’s just about got the damn controller when he hears a knock at his door and a muffled voice say, “Hey, Stiles? It’s Derek.”

Stiles bites his lip, and considers diving back into his bedroom and pretending he’s not home, but -- he can last two seconds to see what Derek wants. Totally. He opens the door part way, and sees that Derek’s in some outwork gear, sweaty, like he’s just came from a run. He prays the boner away and asks, “What’s up?”

Derek colors faintly, like he’s embarrassed. “I went for a run and forgot my keys. I already called Mr. Hernandez, but…”

Stiles gapes, realizing after a moment that Derek wants to crash in his apartment while he waits for the super. It’s a totally normal friendly neighbor request, _but._ He glances at his coffee table. There’s nothing incriminating sitting out, thank god. He can just go to his bedroom and take the vibe out and chill. Derek would never know. No big deal. He can totally do this. “Sure, come on in,” he says, and steps back from the door. “I’m gonna go -- change or whatever. Just, make yourself at home, okay?”

Derek smiles at him gratefully as he enters, and Stiles tries not to sweat. He has a _vibrating sex toy in his ass_ and Derek Hale, the dude he’s been lusting after for _months_ , is in his apartment. It all feels a little too much like the beginning of a porno, and it’s a terrible thought that follows him to the bedroom.

The vibe turns on then. He chokes, his knees almost buckling with the sensation. _How_? he thinks desperately, clutching the doorframe with a white-knuckled grip. _Fucking fuckity fuck_. He left the fucking remote on the coffee tables, he remembers suddenly, and Derek must’ve taken his advice to make himself at home, just innocently trying to turn on the TV, and _oh god --_ the vibrations ratchet up even higher. Stiles thinks he’s going to die from it. It’s too much, too fast, and a groan slips through his gritted teeth. 

“Stiles?” Derek calls from the other room. “Are you okay?” 

“Just. peachy,” he grinds out, and stumbles sideways into his room, breathing heavily. His legs are trembling. The vibrations keep flicking back and forth between settings, and Stiles has never felt more desperate and on edge than he does now, and it’s the knowledge that Derek’s only a few short feet away that keeps him from all out moaning. He needs to get the toy _out_. 

He flops face down onto his bed and makes quick work of his shorts, yanking them down past his ass, and he brings one knee up towards his chest. The vibe’s still buzzing steadily, and he muffles a pained cry into his pillow, just able to get a slippery grip around the flat base when he hears a stuttered out, “Jesus _Christ_.”

Stiles whines, horrified. He forgot to close the door. He forgot to _close the fucking door_. If this were a porno, he thinks, Derek would be on him by now. But his life isn’t one on-going porno, and all he sees is Derek’s pinched and shocked expression over his shoulder before the other man flees the doorway.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the "happy ending" tag, for there /will/ be one. More tags will be added with part 2 (which is forthcoming, I promise). :)
> 
> Come hang out with me at [tumblr](http://punkcorahale.tumblr.com).


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